


Threadwatch

by prairiecrow



Series: Dragon Space Nine [3]
Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Dragons, M/M, Other, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-27
Updated: 2011-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:19:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiecrow/pseuds/prairiecrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thoughts during a lonely watch for Threadfall.  A teaser/establishing-the-relationships piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threadwatch

**Author's Note:**

> A shameless Pern AU, folks. I hope you'll forgive me for the liberties I've taken and enjoy the story for what it is. The basic premise: a shuttle carrying Julian Bashir, Miles O'Brien, Kira Nerys and Elim Garak has crossed a dimensional rift and crash landed on Pern. The four Offworlders are taken in by Fort Weyr, where an accident of Impression leaves Bashir, Kira and Garak with dragons and Miles O'Brien alone at Smithcrafthall to continue figuring out the puzzle of how they might possibly get home again.

It was a lonely post, perched on a spire of stone overlooking the high barren vistas of the Southern Boll range while early morning sunlight glinted on tiny facets of mica across the vast mountainous landscape. But with Threadfall occurring so far outside its predicted patterns all over Pern it was necessary for watchriders to be stationed in the most unlikely places, including here, at the edge of the northern reach of Southern Boll Hold’s territories. An unexpected descent of the deadly spores could devastate the rich farmlands and holds that lay just beyond the horizon, so Garak waited patiently, while two sets of eyes scanned the nearly cloudless sky for any telltale glitter of falling silver.

The Cardassian stifled a small yawn against the back of one leather riding glove: he’d taken two cups of klah before leaving Fort Weyr but he’d been up very late the previous night, thanks in no small part to his weyrmate. He asked out loud and in-mind simultaneously: “Julian?”

 _They sleep._ Ziolth shifted his weight slightly, changing the grip of his foreclaws on the rocky outcrop while his eyes whirled a purer blue than his cobalt hide. Then he added:  _Amorth says that J’lian is dreaming of you._

“Hmph. As well he should,” Garak groused, “with the hours he forces me to keep. Let me know when they wake up, won’t you?”

 _Of course._ A pause, then a pointed observation:  _You are very weary. You should be sleeping too._

“We’re on watch, love — I have no choice. And besides, between Julian’s importuning and that commission for Lord Zanahr I’m lucky I have time to do much of anything else.”

The blue dragon made no articulate response, only offered a wave of tender affection that made Garak smile in spite of himself. After a lifetime of self-imposed emotional isolation, decades of moving through the world resolutely alone as a result of both temperament and training, this was quite a place to find himself: accepted and loved on two different fronts simultaneously, both by this marvellous creature he rode and by a brilliant and compassionate young Human. It had taken him many weeks to learn to accept Ziolth’s telepathic touch without flinching, to let go of the terror of having his innermost thoughts known. Part of it had been a reflexive rejection of the bond due to his Obsidian Order conditioning, a conditioned resistance to any attempt to compromise his mind, but another aspect, swiftly growing, was that he had done so much in his career that was bloody and destructive and driven by calculated cruelty that it was impossible to imagine that the unconditional adoration the dragonet was offering could last. Ziolth, however, had persisted — the little hatchling had no choice in the matter, really — and in time Garak had come to understand that dragons did not necessarily choose a Candidate (however unwitting) for the qualities of his character: whatever dragons found worthy, it was ineffable, and he possessed it. 

He smiled again, this time more widely, remembering Ziolth’s unalloyed joy when he’d finally stopped resisting. It had been one of the most emotionally profound moments of his life.

The memory was instantly shared, and at once Ziolth turned his great head back toward Garak, his eyes shining like living sapphires.  _There could never have been another,_  the blue said firmly with another vibrant wave of unconditional love and happiness. 

“I know that  _now_ , my beautiful one.” Garak reached out and patted the pointed triangular muzzle affectionately, using considerable force so that the beast would feel it; Ziolth rumbled with pleasure and half-lidded his eyes. “But at the time I was just a lonely Cardassian torturer who was afraid of everything you were offering me.” He did not allow the recollection of Ziolth’s decline, of how worried the Weyrfolk were that the bond would complete fail, to enter the forefront of his mind. 

The dragon caught it anyway.  _You are my rider now,_  he stated unequivocally, as if that solved all present difficulties and healed all wounds of memory.  _You will never be alone again._

Garak knew that his smile was utterly besotted and did not mind in the least. Indeed: between Ziolth and Julian he was more blessed by circumstance than he’d ever had any right to expect. “And believe me, dearest heart, I give thanks every day that —”

Ziolth’s vision was far keener than a Cardassian’s and he was looking backward toward Garak, so when his eyes came fully unlidded and an image of distant silver flashed into Garak’s mind their mutual reaction was instantaneous and decisive. As Ziolth turned face-forward and gathered his powerful hindquarters to spring aloft Garak glanced back over his shoulder, judging the distance of the oncoming menace — high up and far away yet, but with a wide leading edge, shimmering wickedly in the bright cold morning — and estimating how long it would take to cross the safely barren mountain ranges and reach the cultivated lands to the south. Together they sent the warning mental cry back to the Weyr:

 _Thread! Thread over Southern Boll Pass!_

Ziolth propelled himself off the spire, wide wings catching the wind. Two downstrokes later they were gone  _between_.

Julian wasn’t going to get to sleep in, after all.

 

THE END


End file.
